"I have never formed a supposition on that matter," he said.
"Well—well—try to form one now. Yes, and you, Julian, too."
He did not address himself to the lady of the feathers, but he looked at her long and narrowly. The doctor lit another cigarette. He seemed to be seriously considering this odd question. Julian, whose lethargy was changing into an almost equally pronounced excitement, was not so hesitating. As if struck by a sudden flashing idea, he exclaimed:
"How if it was in the air? How if it was wandering about from place to place. By God, Val!" he cried, with emphasis, "do you know what I read in a book I took up from your shelves the other day—something about souls being like flames? It was in Rossetti: Flames!"
He turned to Cuckoo and stared into her eyes.
"I was half asleep when I read it," he said. "Why should I remember it now? That flame—I saw that flame months ago." He seemed like a man puzzling something out, trying to trace a way through a tangled maze of thought that yet might be clear. "It came from you, Val, that night, with a cry like a lost thing. A soul expelled, did you say?"
Suddenly his face was set in an awestruck gravity.
"Why—but then, if so, that flame would be you. Valentine, the flame that seemed to haunt me, that I have seen in—"
He looked at Cuckoo again and was silent.
"Yes, Julian?" Valentine said in a hard, thin voice. "Go on, I am listening."